TO THE LIGHTHOUSE
could not do. He found talking so much easier
than she did. He could say things—she never
could. So naturally it was always he that said the
things, and then for some reason he would mind
this suddenly, and would reproach her. A heart-
less woman he called her; she never told him that
she loved him. But it was not so—it was not so.
It was only that she never could say what she felt.
Was there no crumb on his coat? Nothing she
could do for him? Getting up she stood at the
window with the reddish-brown stocking in her
hands, partly to turn away from him, partly because
she did not mind looking now, with him watching, at
the Lighthouse. For she knew that he had turned
his head as she turned; he was watching her. She
knew that he was thinking, You are more beautiful
than ever. And she felt herself very beautiful.
Will you not tell me just for once that you love me?
He was thinking that, for he was roused, what with
Minta and his book, and its being the end of the
day and their having quarrelled about going to the
Lighthouse. But she could not do it; she could
not say it. Then, knowing that he was watching
her, instead of saying any thing she turned,
holding her stocking, and looked at him. And
as she looked at him she began to smile, for
though she had not said a word, he knew, of
course he knew, that she loved him. He could